False Love
by Assimbya
Summary: Trapped alone beneath the Opera House, waiting for Erik to return, Christine muses on life and death.


He left her there perfect, a porcelain doll, her golden curls arrayed around her head, her skin smooth and pale and perfect (he could not resist running a hand over it, making sure that it was real, as he had done a thousand times), her blue eyes closed in what looked like peaceful sleep. He nearly lowered his lips to her forehead and planted a kiss there, but didn't, for that would be blasphemous, for a demon to presume to kiss an angel. So he merely left.

When she awoke, her mind was still dazed by the chloroform. She managed to get to her feet, but it took several moments until she could fully comprehend where she was. When she did, though, there was a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She was his prisoner, _again, _she was his prisoner. And this time she doubted that the only chains holding her there would be the chains of his voice.

There was a book there. It seemed incongruous in that place of shadows and music and mysteries and temptation and death. It is bound in leather, which is worn, as though someone read it a thousand times, pouring over each line and word. She picked it up, and saw that there is one word there, embossed in gold. _Othello._

She knew the opera all too well. She had sung it with him a thousand times, their voices combining in complete joy, though the lyrics were full of sorrow and pain. But she had never read the play, both her father and Mama Valerius not really caring too much about her classical education. So she opened the book to a random page, trying desperately to distract herself, to not think about the smell of death, or the fire of Erik's eyes.

The page she opened up to was when Othello was about to kill Desdemona. Othello spoke of confessing sins, of Desdemona making her piece with God before Othello sent her to the world beyond this one. He spoke of not wishing to kill his young wife's soul.

Christine began to mouth the words in the book as Desdemona pled for her life. "Kill me tomorrow, let me live tonight…" Her voice was hoarse, her throat clogged with unshed tears.

Othello did not listen to Desdemona. As she pleaded, "But while I say one prayer!" (words that Christine spoke too, compelled as though in a trance, and indeed she knew what those felt like) he told her that it was too late, and right then and there killed her.

Didn't Erik know that he was the same as Othello? Didn't Erik know that he was killing her? Erik who slept forever in a coffin until perhaps his eyes closed for the last time and his bed became his tomb, Erik who wrote operas that would be never heard except by the dead, Erik with his hands that smelled of death and his face like a corpse. He was surrounding her by his world of death, and it suffocated her, as Othello suffocated Desdemona. She was being pulled under by it, and she knew that if she stayed here with Erik, buried alive underneath the world she loved, then she would lie down next to him every night in his coffin, and the awful smell of death would be all around her, and perhaps she would smell of it too, in time. Perhaps she would grow so skeletal and wretched that she too seemed a monster to the outside world. And one day she would lie down in the coffin, and death would suffocate her and she would never wake up.

No. Not for the ecstasy of forever hearing the voice of an angel would she endure living death.

Better to die now, quickly, then slowly at his side.

Yes, she could die now, and she could see Erik in either Heaven or Hell, for, wherever he went, she was certain to go as well. He couldn't have so long to live; no one could live very long with death around them constantly. And in the next life, perhaps his face would be healed, and he would have an outward beauty to match his voice. In Heaven, at least. And in Hell, she would be as deformed as him, for their souls must be equal, even if hers was not so stained with blood.

Had there been a knife within her reach at that moment, she would have used it, but there was not and so she had to look around for another means of ending her life. Perhaps she could crack her skull somehow, surely that would kill her, wouldn't it? She had never wanted to know about ways to kill oneself, it was certainly never something that she had considered. Maybe if she hit her head hard enough against the wall, she thought. If her mind had been clearer, perhaps she wouldn't have even considered such a thing, but as things were she didn't think about how much it might hurt, or even if this would work. Desperately, she hit her head against one of the walls. There was a sickening thud, and pain erupted in her forehead. But she certainly wasn't dead, and hadn't even broken anything. She hit her head again against the wall.

This time she could feel blood running down her face. Again, and again she hit her head against the beautifully papered wall, and she knew that her blood was damaging the designs there. Some of the blood dripped into her mouth, and it tasted revolting, like rusty metal. The thought occurred to her that if she continued to do this and it didn't kill her, then she might end up with a face as deformed as Erik's.

That thought sickened her, and she stopped abruptly. No, not to become what he was, no! If she did that, then surely even her beloved Raoul would turn away from her in disgust! Not that it would matter anymore, as she would probably never see him again, but even the possibility was horrifying.

And so, blood running down her face and onto her neck, she picked up the copy of Othello that she had been reading earlier and began looking through the pages, having trouble paying attention to it anymore. She did that for some time, until she noticed a song on one of the pages.

In a great deal of distress of not, music was always a good distraction for Christine. So she opened the book and, her voice slightly hoarse, began to sing the song there on the page. The tune she used was something she had heard Erik play once, and it seemed the most natural thing for this particular song.

"The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree, sing all the green willow. Her hand on her bosom, her hand on her knees, sing willow, willow, willow."

Her voice faltered for a moment, from what she couldn't say, but the singing itself comforted her and so she continued. "The fresh stream ran by her and murmured her moans, sing willow, willow, willow. Her salt tears fell from her, and softened the stones, sing willow, willow, willow."

Why did it have to be a melancholy song? All the songs she seemed to sing these days were melancholy. This one brought tears to her eyes. "Sing all the green willow must be my garland. Let nobody blame him, his scorn I approve."

She heard footsteps, and when she next sang, an angelic voice that was all too familiar to her joined her. "I called my lover false love, and what said he then? Sing willow, willow, willow…" And she let her voice trail off, not able or wanting to sing anymore, not with him there.

When he had left her, she was pure and perfect as an angel, her skin unmarred. When he returned, her fact was covered in blood, which was dripping over the neckline of her dress. She could hear his gasp as he stepped towards her, and his voice, soft. "Oh, dear, darling Christine, you can't do that to yourself. The beauty of an angel should not be destroyed that way. And if you do it too badly, then you might get a face like Erik's, and you wouldn't want that, would you? You'll be a corpse someday too, perhaps at eleven o'clock tonight, but you shan't be one before you're dead." He laughed, a bitter, unpleasant laugh.

"Now I'll clean that for you. You'll let your Erik clean your wounds for you, won't you, Christine? After all, however tonight ends we'll be together, whether it is in holy matrimony or in the grave with the whole world." Erik got a bowl of water and a cloth, and he lifted the cloth to her face. His fingers didn't touch her face, but still the stench of death overpowered her, and she tried not to cough and pull away. But he continued to clean her face, and said, his voice almost kind. "You'll have to get used to this, though, Christine, for, whichever choice you make, both lead to it."

She was able to find her voice for a second, and whispered. "Erik? What do you mean? What are you talking about?"

His fingers actually did touch her cheek then. "You'll know soon. But first tell me why you did this."

She didn't know how she found the strength to speak so coldly, to look into his eyes that were that of both an angel and a demon and speak like that, but she did. "I wanted to die."

Was it sorrow or joy that she saw in his eyes? "No, no, that's not allowed, not yet. Not until eleven o'clock tomorrow night."

Her voice was desperate, hysterical. "_What's happening at eleven o'clock tomorrow night_?"

"I wouldn't want you here and always miserable, Christine, I wouldn't want to keep you here as a prisoner for all my life. I don't want a prisoner for a wife. I decided to give you a choice. You marry me; become my wife with the blessing of the mayor and the priest of the Madeleine, or everyone's dead and buried. You, Erik, and all the world with us. And all by your pretty hands, my angel."

She gasped, the horror of it all overcoming her. Even he, even such a monster, such a murderer as he couldn't offer her such a choice! At her hesitation, he said "You don't have to decide now. You have until tomorrow night at eleven o'clock. But, till then, you can't die. I won't let you." And with that said, he took out rope from somewhere in the room. Realizing what he was going to do, she managed to whisper, "Erik, please don't…"

Was he frowning behind the mask? She couldn't tell. "Erik wouldn't hurt you, Christine. Now sit down."

She sank into the chair behind her because she didn't know what to do. He was indeed gentle as he used the rope to tie her hands and feet together and also to tie her securely to the chair. But she felt like poor Desdemona waiting to be killed.

And then Erik said, sitting down at his organ, "Take it or leave it. The requiem mass or the wedding mass."


End file.
